


in the path of an oncoming storm

by wendlaa



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Healing, Kent Parson Redemption Squad, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Polyamory Negotiations, Therapy, off screen animal death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 17:13:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7942552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendlaa/pseuds/wendlaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing no one tells you about grief is that confronting it is never quite linear. Neither is healing from it. No one tells you that the things you’ve moved on from can still fuck you up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello and welcome!
> 
> firstly: this story is kent-centric from his point of view. if you're not comfortable with that, you can turn around, no hard feelings. secondly: this story confronts the painful reality of what happens after you've hurt someone, and the nuance and realities of human relationships. but also, it ends with jack and bitty coming together with kent. if that's also not your jam, that's totally cool, and i'll see you later.
> 
> i've put a lot of love and labor into this story. i've had this story vetted by two lovely editors: ashleigh kinklock and james hellboner, both of whom have helped me make sure that there is neither vilifying nor excusing of anyone's actions. 
> 
> and LASTLY, this whole fic is dedicated to my girlfriend, without whom i would not be here.
> 
> updated weekly.

Kent has to put Kit Purrson down the same day Jack Zimmermann, captain of the Providence Falconers, becomes the first Out-Capital-O NHL player, with Eric R. Bittle, fucking nobody, by his side.  
  
Kent calls his therapist while he’s still sitting in the vet’s office, phone buzzing with Twitter notifications and the Aces group chat.  
  
+  
  
Kent moves to Las Vegas when he’s eighteen.  
  
He says goodbye to his step-mom Sadie at the airport. She’d driven from New York to Nevada to help him move into his new apartment, put together the furniture, and get all the utilities, internet and water set up. They’d shopped together at Ikea and bought matching furniture sets in all black to match against the stark white of his new little home. They’d spent three days getting the whole apartment settled. Kent had never owned brand new furniture before.  
  
Kent stands in the airport and watches planes take off and wonders if one of them is Sadie’s. Then, he gets into the shitty little car he’s owned since he was sixteen and drives through Las Vegas, lost and alone, until he finds an animal shelter.  
  
(Okay, first, he stops at the first PetCo he sees and wanders the aisles for an hour until he’s got an entire litter box full of everything he thinks a cat could possibly want or need.)  
  
His mom and Sadie had always owned dogs, and Kent’s never been much of a cat person. But, his apartment is kind of small and doesn’t allow dogs, so Kent only has a couple of choices as far as companion animals go. He doesn’t even know if he _wants_ a cat. He doesn’t know what he wants.  
  
(No, this is a lie. He wants Jack to call him back. He wants to be part of Jack’s recovery. He wants to weasel his way back into Jack’s life. He wants to forget the sound of Alicia Zimmermann’s voice when she says, ‘ _Kent, honey, please, you have to stop calling._ ’)  
  
Since he can’t have what he does want, Kent gets a cat.  
  
Kent walks into the shelter, hands stuffed into his pockets.  It’s kind of hot in the little lobby, and there’s a girl behind the counter with a fan pointed directly at her.  She pops her gum like she’s in a movie.  
  
“Hey,” Kent says, leaning his elbows on the counter.  The girl pops her gum. “I want to get a cat.”  
  
“Okay,” she says.  Kent leans forward a little.  Her name tag says Beatrice. Kent’s never known a single person in his life with that name who wasn’t sixty years old.  
  
Through a dank, sweltering little hallway, Kent’s taken back to where the cats are. Even through the concrete walls, Kent can hear the dogs on the other side, barking excitedly as families roam their little cells. The cat room is cooler, an AC unit in one high window chugging relentlessly through the dry, desert heat.  
  
“Do you know what kind of cat you’re looking for?” Beatrice asks. Despite her gum popping, she’s attentive and doesn’t sound bored. Kent wonders if she likes her job.  
  
“Uh,” Kent says, stupidly. “Not really.”  
  
“Like, a kitten? Because our kittens actually get adopted out all the time, so if you’re not sure, we usually suggest you get an older cat. They don’t really get adopted out as often.” Beatrice has this memorized, Kent can tell.  
  
“Sure,” Kent says. “I, uh. Can’t take care of a kitten, anyway.”  
  
So, Beatrice leads him to a back row of cages, where the older cats live. They’re all lounging in their cages. One of  them is asleep in a litter box.  Another has a cone around its head. All of them have little note cards slid into plastic sleeves hanging from the bars with first-person written narratives, like: ‘Hi, my name is Cookie. I’m shy, but I love chin scritches and napping on laps!’  
  
At the very end, without a note card on her cage, is a small white-and-grey cat. She’s curled in the corner, facing away from the bars. Kent says, “What’s this one?”  
  
“Oh,” Beatrice says. “We just kind of call her Kitty-Cat. She doesn’t have a name. Someone brought her in from another shelter across town. She’s um, maybe ten, eleven years old?”  
  
“What’s wrong with her?” Kent asks.  
  
“She was part of a hoarding situation,” Beatrice says.  Kent balks. “She was with fifteen other cats and the owner died and left them all in the apartment. She doesn’t really show well. When we try to take her out, she bites. She’s got some health problems, too. Chronic pancreatitis. She needs daily pills and injections twice-daily for nausea.”  
  
“How long has she been here?” Kent asks.  
  
“Uh, since about March.  She was at the other shelter a little over a year.”  
  
Kent sticks his fingers in through the bars and makes a kissing noise that he’s pretty sure cats like. Kitty-Cat doesn’t so much as flick an ear in his direction.  
  
“Can I have her?” Kent asks.  
  
“I- well.  I mean, yeah,” Beatrice says. “If you want.”  
  
“Okay,” Kent says, suddenly determined.  “Yeah. I want her.”  
  
It takes another employee with thick leather gloves that go up to his elbows to pry Kitty-Cat out of her cage.  She yowls the whole time. When they get her out, Kent can see she’s got to be part Siamese, maybe, because she got the darker grey face with stripes, and her legs have dark grey-striped socks that go all the way up to the joints. Her eyes, though slitted, are a familiar, Canadian blue.  
  
They give him a carrier, and a bag of food that the shelter uses, and then Kent pays a $50 adoption fee. He also gets three different bottles of pills from the shelter vet, a vial of some sort of liquid, and a ziplock baggie full of individually wrapped needles. It’s all a little overwhelming and suddenly, Kent isn’t too sure about this.  
  
But, he gets to rename her on the adoption paperwork, so he shortens her name to Kit, then, because she’s family now, adds _Parson_ at the end.  
  
Kent gets Kit home and lets her out of the carrier after setting up her litter box in the bathroom. She sniffs around the living room, moving carefully. Her little dark tail flicks, her paws making no sound on the hardwood floors. Then, with a finality of approval, Kit throws herself sideways onto the floor and stretches out, little toes spreading in delight. She starts purring, and doesn’t stop.  
  
Kent lays down next to her as a patch of square sunlight filters over them through the windows. It’s too warm, but Kent doesn’t dare move. Together, they start something like healing.  
  
+  
  
The thing no one tells you about grief is that confronting it is never quite linear. Neither is healing from it.  
  
Jack Zimmermann swallows a bottle of pills and Kent spends the next two weeks desperately trying to see him before he goes to Las Vegas to start his new life. Jack Zimmermann swallows a bottle of pills and Kent gets shut out, left behind, and he doesn’t know what he did wrong. Jack Zimmermann swallows a bottle of pills and almost dies and Kent never figures out how to grieve, because he loses his best friend, even if they get him to the hospital in time to pump his stomach.  
  
It’s not like Kent isn’t over Jack Zimmermann.  
  
He is.  
  
Really.  
  
Maybe it’s the fact that Kent won his first Stanley Cup at 22, and when he flew all the way to Boston, rented a car, then drove all the way to Shitwell, MA, he was met with a Jack Zimmermann he'd never seen before in his life.  
  
They fought on the lawn of Jack’s ugly frat house, and Kent ripped into Jack like it was the only thing he could do to reach the Jack underneath, the one he knew was hiding under all the contempt and jealousy and rage. He tore that ugly facade apart and left Jack shaking and trembling. Kent was so angry that it felt good.  
  
It was a bad night.  
  
Kent sends a half-hearted ‘Sorry’ text from his moms’ house the next night after driving six hours to New York. They keep in touch, but barely.  
  
Kent dates a tall brunette who plays guitar and sings poorly, and Kent thinks he loves him, desperately. They break up after three months and Kent dates another tall brunette who doesn’t play guitar at all, or sing, not even in the shower. Kent thinks he loves him even more than the last brunette, but at this point Kent is so fucking crazy that he ends up breaking his heart and deleting his number and never texting or calling again.  
  
Vegas is big. He never sees either of them again. He stops dating tall brunettes.  
  
After that, Kent gets a therapist.  
  
The next time Kent sees Jack Zimmermann is at Epikegster 2014 and Kent is twenty-four and everyone is talking about him. Which means the whole party knows who he is, which Kent loves. He drowns in the attention, and pretends like it means he’s a worthwhile person. He tries to be better, this time, but he thinks there might be something fundamentally rotten at his core.  
  
(‘ _Everyone already knows what you are! But it’s people like me who still care!_ ’  Kent had practically shouted behind Jack’s closed door. It sucked, because he did care. He _still_ cares.  
  
‘ _You’re scared everyone is going to find out you’re worthless, right?_ ’  Among the things in Kent’s life that he shouldn’t have said, never meant to say, and wishes he could take back, this is in the top five.  
  
‘ _Oh,_ ’ Kent had snarled. ‘ _Don’t worry, Jack! Just give it a few seasons. Trust me._ ’    
  
Trust me, Kent had said, and then, didn’t say: _I’m still waiting until they figure out I’m pretty fuckin’ worthless, too._ )  
  
Jack and Kent don’t end up fighting on his lawn again, but it’s still a bad night. Kent calls his therapist, and then his mom, and blubbers like a big fucking baby.  
  
Kent flies home to Vegas the next night, curls up with Kit, and pretends like he’s never heard the name Jack Zimmermann before.  
  
Spring comes. Jack Zimmermann signs with the Falconers. Kent moves on.  
  
And Kent is still moved on while he’s sitting in the vet’s office, listening to his therapist's line ring on the other end of the phone, while Kit Purrson is dying and Jack Zimmermann is coming out. Maybe it’s because there’s all these things unsaid, or all the things that _had_ been said, wafting in the air. Maybe it’s because Kent got Kit after Jack Zimmermann swallowed a bottle of pills and Kent wasn’t let into the hospital room to see him no matter how much he begged.  
  
Maybe it’s because Kit had those big blue Canadian eyes that Kent remembers loving, that took so long to reprogram in his brain so he stopped hating her a little every time she looked up at him from the floor like he was the best thing she’d ever seen in her life.  
  
Maybe it’s a lot of things.  
  
Either way, Jack Zimmermann comes out in a press conference with Eric R. Bittle tucked under one enormous arm on the same day Kent says goodbye to Kit and the whole world just sort of tilts out of alignment.  
  
So, healing is weird. No one tells you that the things you’ve moved on from can still fuck you up.  
  
+  
  
[July 12. 9:23 am] **@officialkentparson** said goodbye to kit today. been a long day already  
  
[July. 12. 9:25 am] **@officialkentparson** @dkenner thanks dude they r gonna cremate her so i can have the ashes  
  
[July. 12 11:20 am] **@officialkentparson** wtf do u do w/ an empty apartment.  
  
[July. 12 11:34 am] **@officialkentparson** @martymcguy i had her since i was 18 ): she was a dinosaur  
  
[July 12. 9:30 pm] **@officialkentparson** congratz from all the aces 2 @jzimmermann  & @omgcheckplease  
  
[July 12. 9:35 pm] **@omgcheckplease** @officialkentparson thank you! (✿◠‿◠)  
  
[July 12. 9:54 pm] **@jzimmermann** :~)  
  
+  
  
Jack Zimmermann was a lot of things to Kent, for a long time. And he’s none of those things, now. He’s not the first boyfriend, the high school sweetheart, the best friend, the Zimmermann-Parson-No-Look-One-Timer.  
  
And Kent is fine with that. When he watches the press conference on Youtube, he takes stock of where all his limbs are and if any of them are numb. They’re not, and he has all of his fingers and toes, and his heart thuds evenly when he watches the way Eric R. Bittle looks up at Zimms like he’s never seen anything more wonderful in his entire life.  
  
Kent’s proud of himself. He instinctively reaches across the bed, hand pawing for Kit where she might usually lay, but all he grabs are layers of cold comforter.  
  
Kent absolutely does not start bawling his fucking eyes out.  
  
From somewhere, buried in the sheets, Kent’s phone buzzes. After a bit of digging, Kent pulls it out and unlocks the screen. In the notifications, there's a message that @omgcheckplease has sent him a direct message. It takes Kent a moment, blinking through the bleary wetness of his eyes before he realizes the implications.  
  
Never one to be a chicken, Kent clicks the notification and watches as Twitter opens up.  
  
 **@omgcheckplease**  
hi.  
sorry about your cat.  
  
Kent blinks down at the messages, confused and uncertain. He clicks out of the DM and scrolls his own Twitter feed. Eric R. Bittle would have had to have read through at least twenty different tweets before encountering the ones he made about Kit.  
  
That wouldn't have been weird if Eric was following him, or if Eric wasn’t Out with Jack Zimmermann, or if Kent Parson wasn't who he was.  
  
Clicking back into the DMs, Kent stares again, and tries to compose something that isn't weird.  
  
 **@officialkentparson**  
thanks.  
  
There. That's totally chill, right?  
  
 **@omgcheckplease**  
sorry .. i don't mean to bother you. we barely even know each other.  
  
 **@officialkentparson**  
hey no big its cool  
  
 **@omgcheckplease**  
:)  
  
 **@officialkentparson**  
does zimms know ur msging me lol  
  
 **@omgcheckplease**  
yes. is that an issue?  
  
 **@officialkentparson**  
uhhhhhh no lol i guess not  
we just haven't talked in a while  
its not like a thing its not weird or anything  
  
 **@omgcheckplease**  
i understand. ex boyfriend talking to current boyfriend.  
  
 **@officialkentparson**  
exactly.  
ne way i gotta jet official important hockey biz in the morning  
see ya  
  
 **@omgcheckplease**  
good night kent parson  
  
Kent doesn't reply. He just clicks out of Twitter and puts his phone on his desk. Then, pulling his laptop closer, he opens a new tab and googles animal shelters in Las Vegas.  
  
He's long since left the apartment he had when he was 18. After winning the Aces two Stanley Cups, he's more than been able to afford an apartment that overlooks the strip, AND allows dogs.  
  
But, still.  
  
In the morning, Eric R. Bittle follows him on Twitter, so Kent follows back.  
  
+  
  
Kent goes to the shelter where he got Kit. There’s a new girl behind the counter, but Kent’s not surprised. It’s been seven years, after all. He’s a bit shocked that the shelter is still here, though. It’s been renovated. The lobby is air conditioned and the counter has been replaced and the walls painted and the floor torn up and put back in. It’s nice.  
  
Kent stuffs his hands into his pockets and hunches his shoulders. Playing hockey in Las Vegas means no one actually knows who he is. Even though he’s snatching hockey records left and right, it’s not like anyone could pick his face out of a line-up. So, when the girl behind the counter says, “Holy shit, you’re Kent Parson”, he’s not sure how to react.  
  
“Uhh,” Kent says, stupidly. “Yeah, I am.”  
  
The girl flushes. There are no name tags, anymore, so Kent’s not even sure what to call her. “Sorry,” she says, and Kent just flashes a grin.  
  
“No big,” he says. He leans his elbows on the counter and it’s like he’s eighteen again. “Hey, weird question. I adopted a cat from here, like, seven years ago. And the girl who helped me was named Beatrice? Like, total long shot, but does she still work here?”  
  
The girl behind the counter blinks, slowly, and then scoots back in her rolly chair to lean around a doorway behind the counter. “Hey, Bea!” She calls.  
  
Sweet.  
  
Bea, not Beatrice, comes from around the corner. She doesn’t look the same at all, but Kent recognizes the dishwater blond hair pulled back off her face and the delicate upward turn of her nose. She’s got freckles from the sun and Kent can’t remember if she had freckles, last time.  
  
“Hey,” Kent says.  
  
“Can I help you?” Bea asks, and she doesn’t recognize him as either Kent Parson or the stupid eighteen year old who came in seven years ago.  
  
“Yeah,” Kent says. “I got a cat from here ages ago, and you helped me pick her out. Anyway, I had to put her down, like, two days ago.” Kent shrugs and looks down at the counter, picking at the corner of a laminated flyer that had been taped down. “She was a dinosaur, though.”  
  
Kent peeks up and Bea has a little frown on her face, the space between her brows pinched. “What was the cat’s name?”  
  
“Kitty-Cat,” Kent supplies. “But I shortened it to Kit Parson on the adoption papers, but then I actually just started calling her Kit Purrson- y’know, P-U-R-R? Like Katy Perry’s cat.”  
  
Bea laughs and it’s an extremely nice sound. “Oh,” she says, and reaches over the counter and puts her small, freckled hands on top of Kent’s. “Oh, I’m _so_ sorry to hear she passed.”  
  
“Thanks,” Kent says.  
  
“Are you looking to get another cat?” Bea asks. “Or a dog? Another companion animal can help with the grieving process.”  
  
Kent likes Bea’s rehearsed lines. He shakes his head.  
  
“Nah. Not yet, I think. I just wanted-- hah… I know, it’s weird, but I just wanted to tell you.” Kent lets Bea lean back away from the counter, and he leans back, too.  
  
“Thank you,” Bea says, smiling with all her teeth. “I can’t believe you remembered my name after all this time.”  
  
Kent grins. “You don’t meet many millennials named Beatrice.”  
  
There’s some sort of matter that needs attendance in the cat room, so Bea and Kent say their goodbyes. Kent sort of wishes he had the nerve to ask for her number-- not because he’s interested, but because he kind of only hangs out with his team and, while they’re all pretty cool, Kent doesn’t exactly have any other friends in Las Vegas. Plus, his therapist told him, like, two years ago he needed friends outside of hockey.  
  
Instead, Kent goes home and finds the shelter’s website, and clicks around until he finds the donation page. After checking his bank account, he makes the biggest donation he can get away with, and makes sure his name is attached.  
  
+  
  
[July 15. 2:20 pm] **@mizsunshines** when ur at work and @officialkentparson walks in and casually asks to talk to ur coworker  
  
[July 15. 2:20 pm] **@mizsunshines** WHEN UR COWORKER DOESNT EVEN KNOW WHO @officialkentparson IS!!!!!!  
  
[July 15. 4:00 pm] **@BarkBarkClubLasVegas** Big THANK YOU to @NHLVegasAces Captain @officialkentparson for donating to the shelter!  
  
[July 15. 5:02 pm] **@beathrice** haha apparently i met @officialkentparson today (and adopted him his cat 7 yrs ago) RIP kit.  
  
[July 15. 5:34 pm] **@officialkentparson** @beathrice @barkbarkclublasvegas :^) thanks ur all great.  
  
+  
  
“Okay,” Bea says, standing on Kent’s balcony that overlooks the strip. “ _This_ is the best part of your apartment.”  
  
It’s two weeks since Kit was put down and Jack Zimmermann came out on national TV on the exact same day, and two weeks since Eric. R. Bittle started DMing him kind of on the regular. It’s normal stuff, like commenting on Kent’s tweets and sending him links to recipes and casually dropping hints on how Jack is doing. Jack hasn’t messaged him, yet, but then again he rarely even posts on his twitter. Kent has a sneaking suspicion that any tweets he does post are actually composed and vetted by Eric.  
  
It’s only been one week since Kent actually got around to messaging Bea on Twitter. He was worried she might think he was weird, or trying to pull. Turns out, they’re both gay and Kent is super fucking glad. Plus, she looks like she could be his sister.  
  
“You said that about the living room,” Kent says, coming out onto the balcony with her. “ _And_ the hallway.”  
  
“Yeah, but I lied both times,” Bea says, resting her elbows on the metal railing.  
  
Kent really, _really_ loves Bea. She’s twenty-nine (“And holding!” Bea says every time with a big, warm laugh.) and doesn’t know a thing about hockey and isn’t interested in the slightest. Kent tells her he’s the youngest captain to win the Stanley Cup and she just kind of looks at him, like: ‘So?’ Bea doesn’t care that he’s kind of famous, or super rich, or that he’s posed nude for the ESPN body issue.  
  
When Bea calls him ‘Kenny’, his chest doesn’t hurt and his mind doesn’t race backwards, superimposing Jack’s voice where her own ought to be.  
  
“Hey,” Kent says, later that evening. Bea’s head is in his lap and she’s clicking through the Netflix on his TV. “Do you wanna come with me to New York? I’m gonna go visit my moms.”  
  
“Uh,” Bea twists her head to look at him. “What, really?”  
  
“Yeah,” Kent says. There’s a beat of silence while she just looks at him. “Uh. I’m rich? I’m gonna buy your plane ticket, obviously.”  
  
Bea works forty-hour weeks at the Bark Bark Club shelter and lives at the edge of town with two roommates. Kent worries he’s forgotten what it was like, growing up with a single mom and barely enough money for his hockey equipment. He’s not even sure if Bea’s about to take offense to his suggestion. It’s just that- well, failing pretty miserably at all other aspects of showing affection, this is something Kent can _do._ This is what he’s _good_ at. He bought his mom and Sadie a brownstone with his first signing bonus. Gift giving is what Kent’s amazing at, and it’s an easy way to say: ‘Hey, I love you, a whole bunch, please take this house’.  
  
“You’re not gonna, like, go Silence of the Lambs on me, are you?” Bea asks, then says, “Ooh, I wonder if that is still on Netflix.”  
  
“I haven’t seen that since I was, like, fifteen,” Kent says. “Okay, but, do you wanna?”  
  
“Go with you to New York?” Bea affirms.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Shrugging, Bea grabs Kent’s hand so he can sink his fingers into her hair. “Cool,” she says. “Let’s do it.”  
  
+  
  
 **@omgcheckplease**  
hey  
  
 **@officialkentparson**  
hey sup sorry i was jogging sup  
  
 **@omgcheckplease**  
haha that's fine  
just wondering if you got another cat yet  
  
 **@officialkentparson**  
u sound like my mom  
my moms super cool actually  
  
 **@omgcheckplease**  
i know i saw the tumblr gif set compilation of you talking about your mom in interviews  
  
 **@officialkentparson**  
omfg no way link me  
actually wait what  
  
 **@omgcheckplease**  
focus parser! cat? new cat?  
  
 **@officialkentparson**  
no but i made best friends with the lesbian who works at the cat shelter  
  
 **@omgcheckplease**  
always a step in the right direction  
  
+  
  
Bea buys him a coffee at the airport Starbucks, which is ridiculous but Kent lets her. They hunker down together at their gate, facing a wide window that overlooks the runways. The sun creeps up over the horizon, throwing orange light and casting long shadows. Bea puts her feet up on Kent’s carry on.    
  
Kent gets recognized at airports more than any other place, so he keeps his hat on facing forwards.  
  
“You're not kidding about the famous hockey dude thing,” Bea says with a laugh as Kent adjusts the brim of his snapback over his face.  
  
“Ugh,” Kent mumbles.  
  
The early flight is worth it just for Bea’s reaction to being seated in first class-- real first class, not just towards the front of the plane. The first class with leg room and big seats, and the flight attendant offering them wine before the plane even takes off. She sinks in the overly large seat, almost swallowed up by the size of it.  
  
“Holy shit,” Bea laughs, grabbing at his arm. Kent grins, wide. She has no tact and Kent loves her more than he loved either of the brunettes combined.  
  
They take pictures of the fancy inflight meals, and Kent even ropes Bea into taking selfies with him in their big, first-class seats. Kent flies a lot, and he’s forgotten what it was like to be impressed with things like this. Bea makes him feel like he's eighteen again, but in a good way. Kent gets in-flight wifi so that he can post the best picture of them together on Twitter.  
  
[July. 30. 7:34 am] **@officialkentparson** mile high club w/ @beathrice  
  
[July. 30. 7:36 am] **@officialkentparson** just kidding but we are flying 2 NY  
  
[July 30. 8:00 am] **@officialkentparson** @beathrice has never been in first class this is so fun  
  
[July 30. 8:04 am] **@officialkentparson** look @ the in flight breakfast they gave @beathrice  
  
[July 30. 8:09 am] **@officialkentparson** she’s crying over waffles.  
  
[July 30. 8:23 am] **@beathrice** whats the hockey term for when kent parson wont shut up  
  
[July 30. 8:30 am] **@jzimmermann** @beathrice Technical term is ‘chirping’, but I think that’s just a personal character flaw.  
  
Kent tries not to think too hard about Jack Zimmermann tweeting directly at him, of his own free will, or what that even means. He’s gotten used to Eric doing it-- they’ve got a pretty good rapport going back and forth. But Kent hasn’t spoken to Jack Zimmermann since that ill-advised trip to Samwell in 2014.  
  
Kent’s talked through the ‘What If I Get In Contact Again With Jack Zimmermann’ scenario over and over with his therapist. Mostly a few years ago, when the threat of Jack Zimmermann returning into Kent’s orbit was something that made Kent sick with anxiety and uncertainty. Kent, now, at twenty-seven, has more understanding and coping tools than Kent, then, at eighteen, or twenty, or twenty-two, or twenty-four, ever had. He’s not the same person that Jack Zimmermann knew.  He’s not the same Kent who ripped into Jack as if it were the only thing that would make Jack make sense again. He’s not the same Kent who stood on Jack’s frat house lawn and screamed until his voice was raw, or even the same Kent who stood in Jack’s room and spit vitriol.  
  
Knowing this, Kent’s pretty sure Jack Zimmermann, out and proud captain of the Providence Falconers, isn’t the same, either.  
  
Kent wishes he knew what Jack wanted. He wonders if he wants an apology. The whole thing makes his stomach hurt a bit, so he turns his phone to airplane mode for the rest of the flight.  
  
His mom and Sadie meet them at baggage claim, and Kent’s whole heart stutters sideways in his chest when he gets to see Bea next to his mom-- she _does_ look like she could be his sister, and Kent loves it. Kent and his mom are both the same height-- short for Kent, tall for his mom, with the same hair and same nose and same freckles. Bea looks like she belongs.  
  
Kent hugs Sadie, who looks nothing like either of them, with her nut-brown skin and dark hair twisted out of her face in locs. She’s taller than all of them, and Kent grunts a little as she squeezes him tight and lifts him so that his toes scrape the linoleum of the airport baggage claim.  
  
“Missed you, kiddo,” Sadie says into his ear and Kent squeezes back.  
  
“I can't believe he dragged you all the way out here,” Mama says, tucking one arm through Bea’s. “That boy. No impulse control.”  
  
“Hey, I'm not complaining,” Bea says, then digs her phone out of her pocket while Kent and Sadie are left to carry the bags. “Wanna see the crazy in flight meal first class served?”  
  
+  
  
Not unlike all the other times he’s flown across the country to visit his parents, Kent ends up on the couch with his mom somewhere around midnight, after Sadie has turned in and Bea’s set up in the guest bedroom.  
  
Kent’s glad she’s waited until they were alone to let the look of concern waver across her face. Her long fingers pick at a loose piece of fabric on the back of the couch. “So,” she says, slowly, and Kent already knows where this is going. “I saw that, um.. Interview, thing. With Jack.”  
  
Swallowing, Kent nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Good for him, huh?”  
  
Mama nods, slowly, sweeping her eyes over Kent’s face. Her expression doesn’t change. “Have you two talked?”  
  
Kent isn’t sure how to say, ‘No, but he @’d me, totally unprovoked, on Twitter and his boyfriend and I have been messaging back and forth about random shit for weeks.’  
  
Instead, he just shrugs.  “Not really.”  
  
It’s kind of weird, seeing how far the ruins of his relationship with Jack Zimmermann have spread. Jack spent so much time with Kent, and his mom, and Sadie, that when Jack cut Kent out, he cut them out, too.  Except, they didn’t do anything-- so Kent is just staring at this space in his family that Jack Zimmermann left behind.  
  
Kent knows his mom doesn’t understand why Jack ( _‘Such a nice boy, Kenny!_ ’) disappeared after the draft, or what Kent did to make Jack hate him _so much_ , or that it’s not _really_ hate, but something so close to it that they were never able to reconcile. And he knows his mom doesn’t quite understand why Kent lost his fucking marbles for years afterwards, trying to figure out how to move on, trying to figure out how to deal and compartmentalize one simple fact:  
  
Kent Parson went first in the NHL draft, and Jack Zimmermann swallowed a bottle of pills.  
  
Still, it wasn’t Jack’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It wasn’t like Jack swallowed those pills on purpose because Kent went first. Jack was sick, and Kent couldn’t see it, and when it all came to a head, Jack did the only thing he could do to heal. Even if that meant leaving Kent behind. And Kent? Kent just didn’t know how to deal.  
  
Except, now he does.  
  
“I’m fine, Mama,” Kent says, voice quiet. “Really. I mean, I probably wouldn’t have been fine, like, two years ago.”  
  
His mom nods, saying nothing.  
  
“But I’m fine now,” Kent goes on. “It took me a really long time to stop feeling like-- I dunno, it was my fault, or that, like, Jack did it to spite me, or something.” Kent looks down, feeling an uneasy twist of guilt in his stomach for even admitting that he had thought that in the first place.  
  
“I dunno,” he says, shrugging and looking up again. “I was just…”  
  
“Sad,” his mom supplies.  
  
Kent laughs, voice tight.  “Yeah. Sad.”  
  
“Are you sad now?” She looks at him from across the couch, shifting grey eyes endlessly fucking tender. Kent misses her so much sometimes, he can hardly breathe.  
  
“Nah,” Kent says, surprising himself with the truth.  “Not anymore.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello and welcome back.
> 
> another chapter filled with a lot of love. thank you my wonderful james @hellboner for deleting all of my commas. you've been an absolute treasure!!!
> 
> thank you ashleigh @kinklock for getting a good chunk of this looked at before sending it along to james. 
> 
> and thank you to my girlfriend, without whom this story would not be possible.

**@omgcheckplease**  
having fun in ny?

**@officialkentparson**  
haha yea.  
bea is a trip.  
u should have seen her the first time we got stopped cause someone wanted my autograph

**@omgcheckplease**  
oh my god.

**@officialkentparson**  
hahaha yeaaaa.  
how's Zimms  
is that weird. sorry. he @’d bea the other day about me so I don't really kno where his boundaries are w/ that

**@omgcheckplease**  
he's good.  
i think he's trying…?  
in his way. you know how he is

**@officialkentparson**  
u kno that's kinna the thing  
i don't think I do anymore  
its not a bad thing but u know  
we just both changed and grew up or whatever

**@omgcheckplease**  
right.  
do you want me to pass on a message?

**@officialkentparson**  
no no no I'm a big boy I can do it  
hey u kno what do u remember like two years ago when jack was still in school

**@omgcheckplease**  
is this about the party?

**@officialkentparson**  
yea yea ..  
i kno that i gotta apologize to zimms……  
but i think i should say sorry to u too  
so im sorry.

**@omgcheckplease**  
well thank you kent parson  
that's mighty big of you

**@officialkentparson**  
aw dude cmon im not like a total dick ass  
there's just a lot of shit w/ me and zimms  
but ne way

**@omgcheckplease**  
of course. thank you.

**@officialkentparson**  
no big .. ne way. im gonna spoil bea rotten today so I g2g

**@omgcheckplease**  
Me next!

**@officialkentparson**  
u got ur own rich hockey player

**@omgcheckplease**  
bea is greedy P:

**@officialkentparson**  
me n Zimms will switch for a day bea would do him good

**@omgcheckplease**  
go spoil your cat shelter lesbian

**@officialkentparson**  
haha shhhhit yeah ok bye

 

+

 

When Kent drops Bea off at her house when they get back to Las Vegas, he sits outside in his car on the curb for a long minute. His phone lays on his thigh, open to Twitter, a blank DM on the screen to @jzimmermann.

He’s not sure what he wants to say. Saying it to Eric had been easy, but Kent doesn’t know if he’s ready to confront all of the things that linger still between him and Jack. And yet, Kent’s pretty sure if he doesn’t get the ball rolling now, he’ll just end up ignoring it for as long as possible. Maybe forever. An unease sinks under his skin at the thought. He doesn’t want _that_.

Picking up his phone, Kent taps out a message.

And then deletes it.

And taps out another.

And then deletes that one, too.

This isn’t really a matter that requires calling his therapist, but Kent is tempted anyway.

Finally, Kent sucks in a breath and sends a fucking message.

**@officialkentparson**  
we should talk.

After sending it, Kent’s hands feel clammy and his throat tightens. Scrubbing one hand through his hair, Kent tosses his phone face down in the passenger seat and doesn’t look at it the whole way home.

Kent checks his phone only after he's dragged his luggage inside the apartment. He almost expects, still, to hear Kit’s familiar yowling from somewhere, but each room is silent except for the soft whirring of central air.

Perching on the edge of the couch, Kent unlocks his phone and opens Twitter.

The first thing he finds are about a hundred new mentions with his name, mostly from people who had seen him in New York. At least half of them are people speculating whether or not he and Bea are together-- which, while funny, is a bit annoying.

There's a little blue notification dot by his DMs.

**@jzimmermann**  
Okay.

Kent’s throat feels clogged when he tries to swallow. In his chest, his heart races so hard that Kent can feel each hummingbird beat. The room is too warm, suddenly. He wishes Kit were still alive.

The nerves get the better of him, and Kent locks his phone and places it face down on the coffee table.

Maybe _this_ is good enough reason to call his therapist, but Kent resists. Instead, he stands and paces the length of his apartment. The energy beneath his skin feels like it's suddenly sparking into ignition. He’s _nervous_ , which is stupid.

For years, Kent had the luxury of not talking to Jack, of not reconciling with Jack, under the guise of: ‘Oh, well, he just, like, hates me? So, whatever.’ Facing open contempt is easy. Staring down the opportunity for forgiveness, and knowing that Jack was within his rights to deny it? Fucking sucks.

That’s another thing no one tells you about healing. When you fuck up, no one has to forgive you. Kent spent a lot of time agonizing over that.

( _‘What’s the point?’_ He had asked his therapist, after the Epikegster Disaster of 2014. _‘What’s the point if Zimms is just going to keep hating me?’_

_‘It’s not about you, Kent,’_ she had said, calmly. _‘Healing means healing the damage you’ve done, too.’_ )

Finally, Kent decides on a shower before anything else. If he’s going to push through this and talk to Jack, he needs to not feel like he just flew all the way from New York to Las Vegas on a non-stop flight.

One shower, fresh change of clothes and beer later, Kent’s settling in front of his laptop. His stomach is still roiling, but he’s managed to DM Jack an exchange of skype names. This isn’t something he wants to do over Twitter, or text-- Kent doesn’t even really want to have this conversation over skype.

But, short of getting back on a plane and flying to Providence, it’s sort of his only option.

On the screen, the skype ‘incoming call’ pops up: _Jack Zimmermann calling._

“Oh, my god,” Kent says, throat tight. He declines the call, then cups his face in his hands.

God, okay. Kent gets up and grabs another beer, rubbing one hand through his hair. He can do this. It’s just hard. But Kent’s done things that are ten times harder. Winning the Stanley Cup was harder. Making the choice to put Kit down was harder. Walking away from Jack Zimmermann at eighteen was harder.

Taking a deep breath, Kent swallows a mouthful of beer then clicks the video call button.

Jack’s face fills the screen, as if he had just been sitting there waiting for Kent to call him back. He looks … different. Kent’s not really surprised, but acknowledging it still feels strange. He looks older, broader, larger.

_That sad, soulful sleepyhead, Jack Zimmermann,_ Kent thinks, a little deliriously.

Jack looks like he’s set up at a desk, and behind him Kent can see the rest of his open apartment. The room Jack is in looks like a sitting room, the apartment floor plan open enough that Kent can see the kitchen, both rooms separated only by a large kitchen island. There’s a light on behind him, which bathes Jack in a weird shadow.

In the background, Kent can see someone moving in the kitchen.

“Hey,” Jack says at the same time Kent says, “Woah, hi.”

There’s a pause, and then Jack laughs first. Kent feels like his stomach is being twisted into a knot. The silence stretches between them, and if Kent holds his breath he thinks he can hear humming coming from the speakers over the whir of his laptop.

“Is uh-” Kent pauses, swallows, tries again. “Is Eric there?”

Jack’s expression does something that Kent’s not used to. He looks over his shoulder, back towards the kitchen. When he looks back, Jack has a look on his face that Kent’s almost certain he’s never seen: all dopey-eyed and lovestruck.

It doesn’t hurt, and that’s good.

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Do you want me to go somewhere private?”

Kent shakes his head. He has to look down at his hands instead of at the screen, though. His fingers twist together. “Nah, this is fine,” Kent says. To his own ears, his voice sounds impossibly small.

“Okay,” Jack replies, steady and calm and self-assured. Kent doesn’t recognize this Jack, and maybe that’s a good thing.

“Okay,” Kent repeats. He sucks in a deep breath, keeping his eyes on his hands. “Okay. So, look- I just, uh. Okay.”

This is hard. When Kent peeks up, Jack is staring at him, calm and steady. Kent’s never really thought that their roles would be reversed. Kent remembers Jack as the one who could barely hammer out his words. He digs his nails into his palms and tries again.

“Okay,” Kent says, then steels himself and barrels on through: “I’m sorry. For, uh, a lot of things. I could probably dig out a list, somewhere, if you want specifics. But, mostly, for how fucking awful I was. I was really-- okay, so, my therapist says that I was kind of traumatized by the whole-- draft, thing. And then, after, but that’s not really an excuse, cause I was horrid.”

Kent feels like he might vomit, but when he looks up again Jack is watching him calmly, so Kent keeps going.

“I said these really, really awful things to you because I thought that if I could make you hurt as bad as I was hurting, then, like, I don’t know, everything would make sense again.” Kent thought that, maybe, this might be cathartic but mostly it’s making Kent’s stomach turn to rot. Nothing about this is fun, or good, or _healing_. It’s just giving him heartburn. “Uh, that’s it. I guess. I’m sorry.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Jack’s voice, sounding tinny through the speakers: “Kent.”

Kent looks up. “Yeah.” He sounds breathless.

“I’m sorry, too,” Jack says.

Kent blinks. “Woah, wait, what?”

“Of course I am,” Jack says, leaning forward a bit towards his computer screen. “Kent-- Of course I am. There’s so much-- so much was happening, and you were right, kind of. I did shut you out.”

“Right, but-”

“Kent,” Jack says, firm. Kent shuts his mouth.

“Thanks,” Jack says, before going on. “I _did_ shut you out. And maybe it helped at the time, but that doesn’t mean it was particularly _fair_. And then I was watching you tick off all of my own personal goals-- goals we were supposed to be accomplishing together. I wasn’t-- I let it get to me, in a way I shouldn’t have.”

Kent is staring, he knows he’s staring, and his thinks his mouth might be open too.

“I wasn’t a saint,” Jack says. “I was angry, and I took it out on people who didn’t deserve it. _Crisse_ , I even took it out on Bitty when we first met. I spent so long being angry- you were easiest to be angry at. And that- yeah. Was wrong. So, of course. Of course, I’m sorry.”

Kent sucks in a deep breath, then nods. “Okay, uh. Well, I forgive you. Of course. Of-fucking-course.”

Jack laughs. “Kent,” he chides.

“Yeah, you’re so fucking forgiven,” Kent says, leaning forward on his elbows, because now he’s got Jack laughing and that is just … the best feeling in the whole entire world. “Like, so forgiven that I’m retroactively forgiving you two years ago.”

“Okay,” Jack says, shoulders shaking. “Okay. You, too. Of course you are.”

Kent does not start getting all wobbly-lipped and bleary-eyed. “Good,” he says.

From around Jack’s shoulder, Kent watches Eric approach. He leans over Jack’s shoulder, and Kent is struck a little stupid: Eric R. Bittle is cute. And it’s not like Kent hasn’t seen pictures of him before. There’s something different, though, about the public Eric R. Bittle, beau of the Falconers’ new captain, and ‘Bitty’, leaning over his boyfriend’s shoulder in bad lighting over a skype call. Kent can see his freckles, even through the low quality of the web camera. Everything about him seems softer, if possible. The way Zimms reacts to Eric swallowing up his personal space is something Kent hasn’t seen in a long time.

But, like, Eric Bittle? Is _unfortunately_ cute.

“Dinner’s ready,” Eric says, then smiles when he sees Kent. Kent smiles back and hopes it looks sort of human. “Well, hello, Kent.”

“Hey,” Kent says, lamely. He’s still feeling fragile. “Sorry, I won’t keep him.”

Eric grins. “Y’all have a good talk?”

Jack turns his face, presses his pinched mouth against Eric’s cheek. Watching feels so intimate that Kent wants to look away. “Yeah,” Kent say, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Yeah, real great. Super.”

“We’ll talk more later,” Jack says, looking at the screen again. Kent’s not sure how he feels, having all of Jack’s attention on him again. It’s been years, and it’s different, now.

“Yeah,” Kent says, careful not to sound overly eager. “Definitely.”

“Kent,” Eric says, leaning closer.

“Sup?”

“ _Get a cat._ ”

Jack is still laughing when the skype call ends, and the sight of it feels burned into the backs of Kent’s eyes.

 

+

 

**@omgcheckplease**  
https://www.petfinder.com/petdetail/31610522

**@officialkentparson**  
oh  
my  
god

**@omgcheckplease**  
https://www.petfinder.com/petdetail/35965459

**@officialkentparson**  
stop im dying

**@omgcheckplease**  
https://www.petfinder.com/petdetail/35987144

**@officialkentparson**  
i wonder how many cats my apt can hold  
can i get all of them do u think  
at least 2 so one of them doesnt get lonely right

**@omgcheckplease**  
Can’t have a lonely cat.

**@officialkentparson**  
right exactly……

**@omgcheckplease**  
https://www.petfinder.com/petdetail/34451886

**@officialkentparson**  
OK OK OK i’ll get a friggin cat …….

**@omgcheckplease**  
:) :) :) :) :)

 

+

 

**kent** _(7:34 am)_  
ok i want a cat

**bea bae** _(8:30 am)_  
1) too early to text me 2) you know where to get a cat

**kent** _(8:31 am)_  
i just got back from my run ok. also u helped me get kit so now you have to help me get new cat

**bea bae** _(8:42 am)_  
deal, but only if you drive me to work

**kent** _(8:43 am)_  
dude im already outside ur place

 

+

 

Kent hands Bea a styrofoam cup of coffee when she climbs into the passenger side of his car, hair pulled back and damp from a shower. In response, she hands him her phone, open to the mobile web browser.

“Oh my god,” Kent groans. Bea’s laugh is a cackle, head thrown back.

_NHL’s Biggest Playboy’s New Beau?_

“Kent Parson seen in New York over the weekend on the arm of a-- oh my god, there's a picture.” Kent frowns as he scrolls down the article page. “Who writes this? Look, you're wearing flannel in this one.”

Bea is still laughing. “ _Are_ you the NHL’s biggest playboy?”

“Do I look like one?” Kent frowns when all Bea does is laugh more. “Oh, come on. It’s only because I, like, go clubbing a lot. But so does the _entire team_. They’re just picking on me because I’m hot.”

“How does nobody know you're gay?” Bea grins, reaching over to pinch his bicep. “You're like a beefy twink.”

Kent barks a laugh and hands Bea her phone back. “I mean, it's better than the one time the gossip mags thought I was dating my _mom_.”

“Oh my god!” Bea shrieks with laughter as Kent pulls back out onto the road. “Okay, wait, which mom.”

“Mom-mom.”

“That's fair. Amelia could get it.”

Kent groans. “ _Stop._ ”

“Sadie, too.”

“You're worse than my entire team.”

By the time Kent pulls into the shelter parking lot, Bea’s cheeks are flushed pink from laughter and Kent’s phone is mostly notifications from the Ace’s groupchat about his picture in the article.

**domino** _(9:14 am)_  
when do we meet the BEAU, cap?

**nelly** _(9:15 am)_  
I'm about 80% sure that's his actual sister

**swoops** _(9:15 am)_  
IS THAT WHY U WONT COME CLUBBING ANYMORE

**shardsy** _(9:16 am)_  
I'm gonna lose like $100 bucks if ur into girls cap

**kent** _(9:16 am)_  
wtf don't make bets on that shit

Kent locks his phone and silences the group chat, then walks into the shelter with one arm slung around Bea’s shoulders. There's little chance of getting pap shots in fucking Vegas, but the gesture makes Bea laugh, which is better than almost anything.

After clocking in, Bea takes him back to the cat room. Kent shoves his hands in his pockets, frowning at the cages. When he got Kit, it had seemed like she was the only choice. But now Kent’s faced with cats who, for the most part, have a pretty good chance of getting adopted, and he’s not sure where to start.

“What about a kitten this time?” Bea says, sticking her fingers in a cage with three little kittens, all of whom immediately begin mewing and batting at her.

“I'd never go on a roadie again,” Kent says, grinning. “Because I'd never want to leave her.”

Laughing, Bea pulls away. “That's fair. We've got a ton of adult cats, older cats. And they won't rip up your nice fancy hockey money apartment.”

They spend an hour in the cat room. Kent reads every single placard about the cats, and some of them even strike his interest. But, when Kent had gotten Kit, he was healing something inside himself. And he was healing Kit, too, in a way. He's not entirely sure how he can fill that space she left behind, or if he even wants to.

“We get new cats in all the time,” Bea says as Kent gets ready to leave. Her voice is sympathetic. “Maybe today isn't the day.”

Nodding, Kent scrubs a hand through his hair. “Sure. Want me to pick you up?”

Bea waves him off. “Nah. I gotta get groceries anyway.”

Kent resists the urge to insist and just shrugs. “Cool. Text you.”

“Text you,” Bea replies, then disappears behind the counter.

It takes Kent a moment to gather himself well enough to walk out the front door and into the early August heat.

 

+

 

[Aug 6. 10:20 am] **@officialkentparson** @jzimmermann u better be gettin back in shape

[Aug 6. 10:20 am] **@officialkentparson** @jzimmermann cause I wanna meet u on professional ice this year cap

[Aug 6. 10:27 am] **@jzimmermann** @officialkentparson “back in shape” implies I was ever out of it.

[Aug 6. 10:30 am] **@officialkentparson** @omgcheckplease @jzimmermann quit writing his tweets for him

[Aug 6. 10:34 am] **@omgcheckplease** @officialkentparson THERE’S NO WAY YOU COULD HAVE KNOWN THAT.

 

+

 

“How's the girlfriend?”

“Oh my god, not you too.”

Surreal, Kent thinks. That's what this is. Surreal. He's sitting on his couch, laptop on the coffee table, drinking a beer and skype calling Jack Zimmermann. And Jack is on the other end, presumably in the same position, minus the beer. Bitty is sitting on the arm of the couch, one elbow propping him up along the back.

Kent never thought _this_ would be his life. But here he is. He takes a swig of the beer and pushes one hand through his hair.

It’s surreal. Kent _wants_ to be here-- in this moment, mostly sober, watching Jack from over the skype call. Eric is a welcome addition, perching and arranging himself languidly across the sofa. Eric’s face is turned towards Jack, watching him talk, looking stupid and in love.

Jack grins, hands resting in his lap. “Oh, come on. It was a good picture.”

“She's gay, for the record. So am I.” Kent wrinkles his nose, taking another long drink of his beer. Then he sets the bottle down on the coffee table and draws his legs up under him on the couch. He props his elbows up on his thighs and leans forward a bit.

“So,” Kent says. “You arranged the skype date. What's up?”

Jack swallows visibly and turns to look at Eric. “So,” Jack repeats.

“So,” Eric says, sliding down off the arm for the couch and into the space beside Jack on the cushion. “There's still some time left before the season starts, right?”

Kent blinks, nodding. “Yeah.”

Grinning, Eric props his chin up on one palm. “So, we were thinkin’ we ought to have you out here to visit, Kent Parson.”

Eric says his full name in this way that's almost like a chirp, but not. Kent laughs a little, feeling a sudden bubbling of nerves start up in his gut. “Uh, I mean-- chyeah, I guess.”

Jack looks relieved, but there's still a hard line on his brow. “Only if you want,” Jack says. “It's only been-- you know. A short while.”

“Right,” Kent says. “Since we stopped hating each other.”

“Kent Parson, you quit that,” Eric chides. His voice is all long vowels. “I think it would be lovely, havin’ you out here.”

Jack nods, but he looks kind of like he’s got to take a shit, so Kent’s not entirely sure where he actually stands on the whole idea. The thought isn’t entirely unpleasant. Kent imagines that, maybe, it could even be a bit fun. Kent isn’t sure how to act around Jack anymore, and he’s sure Jack has the same problem. Their skype calls usually consist of awkward verbal fumblings until one of them starts in on something hockey related, and they find their footing again.

Kent rubs the back of his neck. “Uh- I mean, sure. Fuck, why not? Yeah. When do you want me?”

“When can you get here?” Bitty asks, sweetly.

 

+

 

Gabriella has been Kent’s therapist for years. They’ve been through a lot together. Thinking about who he was at eighteen, twenty, twenty-two, Kent feels instinctual flashes of shame, still. Kent pays her enough money that she’s often available to be reached by phone or text whenever he really needs her. The calls usually only last a few minutes at most unless it’s an emergency (it isn’t, not since Epikegster 2014, and then not again until Kit’s death), in which case she’s available for longer, and often suggests a skype call if they can.

Kent sees her about once every two or three weeks, and they have skype calls when he’s on the road.

He schedules a session before even purchasing tickets to Boston. He had gently hedged the night before, on skype with Jack and Eric, about seeing what his schedule was like before making the commitment of doing something as potentially crazy as flying out to see Jack Zimmermann and his tiny, southern boyfriend. Gabriella is happy to accommodate him, and so the next day Kent goes.

Gabriella greets him warmly in her office. She’s small and slight, with little bones like a bird. Kent feels giant next to her.

“Kent,” Gabriella says, her voice kind. “How are you doing? How was your week?”

Kent sits in one of the offered arm chairs. It’s big and comfy, and he sinks into it. Gabriella sits across from him, crossing her legs and steepling her hands together under her chin. There’s a notebook in her lap, but Kent’s never seen her write in it, despite the fact that it's always open to a new page of notes.

“Good,” Kent says, because it’s true. “I went to look at cats with Bea.”

Gabriella smiles at him, beaming like she’s proud. It feels nice. Kent fiddles with his hands in his lap, twisting his fingers together. “That’s good,” Gabriella says. “I think it would be good for you to start considering another companion animal.”

Nodding, Kent looks up. “Yeah. And, uh. Zimms. Jack. Jack Zimmermann-- we’ve been skyping. And talking on twitter a lot.”

Gabriella’s expression doesn’t really change. Kent had already told her about the apology, and the weird tentative friendship between them. She seems to know there’s more that Kent wants to say, because she waits, patient and calm, for him to continue.

“It’s weird,” Kent says, lifting one hand to scrub his fingers through his hair. “Every time we talk I feel like I’m doing something wrong? I’ve only really told Bea that we’re talking again, and she doesn’t even know anything besides the fact that I’m the crazy ex boyfriend.”

At this, Gabriella frowns. “Kent,” she says, voice soft and a little stern.

Clearing his throat, Kent amends: “Not crazy, I have a personality disorder. But it _feels_ like I’m crazy.”

“You said you feel like you’re doing something wrong,” Gabriella points out. “Is this a feeling of guilt?”

“Yeah,” Kent says. “I guess. Like- am I gonna fuck up again? The last two times I was face to face with Zimms I just-- I was so mad. And I said-” Kent pauses, swallows, keeps going. “-I manipulated him. I tried to, anyway. I wanted him in my life so badly and I- if I couldn’t, I just- hurt him.”

Gabriella nods, the movement slow and deliberate. “Admitting and understanding the harm you’ve caused is very hard, but a good step in the right direction. You said Jack accepted your apology, and forgave you for what happened.”

Uncomfortable, Kent nods. “Yeah.”

“And what do we know now, that we didn’t back then?”

“I can’t control other people.”

“That’s right,” Gabriella says. Her voice is the same steady calm as it always is, and Kent feels the nerves under his skin start to relax. “You hurt Jack by trying to control him, and his reactions, and his feelings.”

Kent nods again, looking down at his hands.

“But,” Gabriella says, voice a notch softer, just a touch more gentle. “You’ve put in the time and effort and hard work to change the way you think, and to apologize to Jack. There’s no reason you should deny yourself a friendship with him based on the idea that you just might say something or do something hurtful. Sometimes, those things happen. Interpersonal relationships can be hard. _Jack_ might say or do something hurtful. Your history with Jack is long and tumultuous, but Kent, at your core, you are not _bad_.”

It’s weird, to hear her say that. Kent’s heart is thudding in his throat, uncomfortable and thick. He swallows and his mouth feels sticky.

“So,” Gabriella says, leaning forward a bit. “If you are comfortable, I want you to continue talking with Jack. However, you are going to move forward into a new friendship, not look back on what was there before. I don’t see anything in your progress hindering you from this. It could very well be a good thing.”

Kent exhales, and tries to let the weird feeling in the pit of his stomach go with it. He trusts Gabriella. He's had to trust her since he was a drunken mess of a twenty-two year old, confused and angry and letting his every whim take him to the ends of the earth. If Gabriella thinks Kent can do this, he probably can.

“Okay,” he says, and then knows he sounds sort of guilty. “So there's this other thing- uh, they sort of- you know, both of them. Jack and Eric. They invited me out to Providence before the season starts.”

Gabriella makes a considering noise. “And do you want to go?”

“Well, chyeah,” Kent says, and feels a little better with the honesty of the answer. “Just, uh. Worried I might not be thinking it through all the way.”

“Okay,” Gabriella says. “Let's talk about that. What do you expect out of this visit?”

He hadn't thought about that. Providence isn't New York or Las Vegas. It's not like he's visiting family, or coming home. It almost feels like he's been invited to disrupt Zimms’ nice quiet stable home life.

“I dunno,” Kent answers, honest as he can be. He shrugs his shoulders and opens his palms in his lap. “Maybe a good time? I haven’t- I don’t know, I haven’t seen Jack in so long. Maybe a lot of talking?”

Nodding, Gabriella says, “Good. That’s good. I think this trip could be very fun. I don’t see any reason why you should turn down the invitation.”

“Yeah?” Kent asks, a little surprised. He knows he’s been doing pretty well lately, all things considered. Working with Gabriella involves a lot of talking, a lot of balancing medication, a lot of making sure he’s not seeing some entirely different reality. It helps. So when Gabriella insists that yes, this is fine, go ahead, Kent feels a little thrill underneath his skin.

A smile breaks across Gabriella’s face. “Yes, Kent,” she says. “Absolutely.”

Kent grins right back. _Absolutely._

  
+

 

**kent** _(7:20 am)_  
last chance to talk me out of this

**bea bae** _(7:23 am)_  
ok mr I'm gonna go visit my ex and his new boyfriend. surprise me and don't go do something totally weird.

**kent** _(7:26 am)_  
ok well fuck I thought u would be asleep

**bea bae** _(7:30 am)_  
nah fucker like I would miss this breakdown.

**kent** _(7:31 am)_  
I OK’d this with my therapist as a totally not crazy move.

**bea bae** _(_ _7:34 am)_  
you are really one dumb Fuck

**kent** _(7:40 am)_  
ok yeah but. u love me.

**bea bae** _(7:41 am)_  
well someone has to. text me when you land

**kent** _(7:45 am)_  
:-*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a lot of emotions and feelings about kent parson with a personality disorder, and maybe it's just me projecting right onto him! but this is the experience i chose for kent, and it's a struggle i know well. just in case anyone was concerned that i was stepping where i shouldn't.
> 
> come see me on tumblr @whalelesbian


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the fact that any of you are sticking around is a goddamn miracle.
> 
> thanks, though.

Kent meets Jack Zimmermann when he’s sixteen. He falls in love in a way that feels like he’s falling into a hurricane.

Jack Zimmermann is tall, broad, quiet and everything Kent isn’t. His dedication to hockey is something that’s easy to get swept up in. He’s competitive and strong-willed and he’s easy to push, because he always pushes back. Kent loves him the minute he meets him, in the way that sixteen year old boys fall in love. Every breath Kent takes alongside Jack feels like he’s breathing in tandem with his other half. He’s certain that he was never a whole human being until Jack came along. He fits inside Kent’s chest, filling a space that had always been missing.

(In five years, Kent starts to figure out there was never anything missing; he is a whole person, and always has been. Still- Jack Zimmermann leaves a hole, carved in the center of Kent’s chest, constantly aching.) 

Kent kisses Jack for the first time in the woods behind his billet family’s house. He kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him. 

Kent is sixteen, and Jack is sick, and Kent does the only thing he thinks will help. When Jack shakes and sweats and panics, Kent thinks, ‘ _ It’s just one more pill? What does it matter?’ _ because he loves him, stupidly, desperately, achingly, and he wants him to be well. When Jack is good, he’s really,  _ really _ good. When Jack is good, Kent swallows down the high and lets it fill him like bowling shafts of sunlight. 

But when Jack is bad- when the threads of anxiety start thrumming beneath his skin, Kent feels like he’s drowning, like there’s no possible lifeboat to save them both. Kent knows, vaguely, that Jack shouldn’t be taking as many pills as he does. But it helps- and if it helps, then Kent imagines it can’t be that bad. Kent lets himself get swept into Jack’s orbit- he’s awkward, and anxious, and Kent loves him, helplessly.

Jack loves him in a way that makes Kent feel invincible. At sixteen, Kent would do anything to keep Jack by his side.

At seventeen, Kent learns the word ‘ _ enabling _ ’ and swallows down his guilt every time he gives Jack another pill. It keeps Jack with him, and he needs Jack with him. If he loses Jack, if Jack cracks under the pressure, Kent thinks he might die. So, Kent does everything in his power to keep Jack with him. It’s selfish, and desperate, and Kent can see Jack slowly getting worse and worse and worse.

And then there are thirty-four days in the summer of 2009, between the Memorial Cup and the NHL draft, where everything is  _ perfect _ . Kent is so sure that Jack is about to go first in the draft. The idea that it would be anyone else doesn’t cross his mind. For a while, for exactly thirty-four days, everything is perfect- even if Jack is still drinking maybe too much, and taking more pills than he should, and Kent is letting him, over and over, because then everything  _ keeps being perfect _ .

All they have to do is make it to the draft, and then everything they’ve both worked so  _ fucking _ hard for will be realized. Every late night, every hangover, every extra pill, every sleepless night, is about to be accounted for. It’ll all be worth it.

Together.

Kent turns eighteen a month after the 2009 NHL draft. 

Distant, over the loudspeaker, a voice, tinny and echoing. His name.

_ ‘Kent Parson _ .’

 

+

 

Kent lands in Boston, then plans to rent a car and drive to Providence. It's only an hour drive, according to google maps, and late enough in the day when he finally lands that traffic might not be too horrible. He shoots a text to Bea as soon as he gets off the plane. Everything feels cramped, arms and legs stiff from sitting for so long. He's got to stop fucking flying to the East Coast. 

While he's waiting for his luggage at the baggage claim he shoots off a tweet about being in Boston, which is almost immediately favorited by Eric. Kent laughs a little. And then, he has an immediate new message into his DMs. 

**@omgcheckplease  
** hey turn around :)

Kent blinks slowly, lifting his head and twisting around halfway. Behind him, in the bright lights of Logan International, stands Eric and Jack. Eric is smaller than Kent could have imagined, the top of his head hovering around Jack’s shoulders. He’s even shorter than Kent, who is pretty used to being the shortest guy at the party. His skin is sun-browned and he has freckles all over his face. It’s kind of weird seeing Eric standing right next to Zimms, who seems massive in comparison. He’s bulking up for the season, and does it better than Kent. He always has.

Jack grins, lop-sided. He looks different. Calmer, Kent thinks. But his hair still has that goofy, stupid cow-lick and Kent’s heart sort of misses a thud. 

“Holy shit,” Kent says, a little too loudly.  A mother with a child hitched up onto her hip shoots him a look. Kent laughs a little, crossing the distance to Eric and Jack.

He isn’t sure he should-- shake his hand? Hug him? Kent shoves his hands into his pocket instead.

“Parse,” Eric says, grinning. 

“Itty Bitty,” Kent replies. Jack laughs.

“Kenny.” 

The way Jack says his name is new. The difference lies in the strength of his tone, the way his voice doesn’t wobble. His shoulders are strong, and tall, and his chin his high. Kent can’t remember the last time he saw Jack like this- he can’t even remember if he’s  _ ever _ seen Jack like this. Kent’s still small enough that he has to tilt his head back to meet Jack’s eyes. And when he does, it’s almost unreal.

Kent warbles a bit, mouth fumbling over the words- he isn’t sure whether to say ‘Jack’ or ‘Zimms’ and so it comes out a garble of consonants. Finally, Kent manages to say, “Heya, Zimms.”

Then, lifting one hand to scrub through his hair, Kent says, “What the hell, dude? I thought I was gonna drive down to Providence.”

Tsk-ing, Eric steps forward and places his small hand on the cup of Kent’s elbow. “It ain't right to fly into an airport without someone to meet you there,” he says. His voice is all honey and sugar vowels. “Ain't right at all.”

“No? You gonna follow Jack on all his roadies?” Kent asks, moving with the gentle pressure Eric exhibits to turn him back towards the baggage carousel. The machine shudders to life, beginning to push out luggage along the track. Jack stays standing behind them, and Kent can't help looking over his shoulder. 

“Don't you tempt me,” Eric says, laughing. His laugh is easy and warm and Kent lets some of the uncertainty and unease seep out of his skin.  _ They _ had invited  _ him _ after all- collectively, as a unit. Still, it's hard to shake off the feeling that he's invading, wedging himself in where he isn't wanted. He wonders if, in relation to Jack, that feeling will ever start to fade. 

The arrival of his luggage is a welcome distraction from the overthinking he knows he’s doing, and Kent waves off Jack’s offer to carry his bag with a crooked smile. “It’s got wheels, man, I think I can manage,” he says, in a chirp that’s as much directed at himself as it is at Jack.

Jack lifts both hands in a surrendering motion, shrugging in a manner that’s clearly over-exaggerated. Kent rolls his eyes, lips pursed but twitching at the edges.

In the end, it’s itty Bitty who grabs Kent’s luggage from them both. “Boys,” he says, waving for them to hurry along. “Useless.”

 

+

 

The intimacy that Kent witnesses between Eric and Jack seems almost unbearable, at first. In the morning, Jack calls Eric ‘ _ Bits _ ’, in a voice that is thick and rough with sleep. Eric calls Jack all kinds of names: Honey, baby, sugar, sweetheart, dear heart. Then, when Eric uses Jack’s name, he says it in this adoring, exasperated sort of way- sometimes accompanied with a roll of his bitter-brown eyes or his small hands on his small hips. 

Watching feels weird. When Jack invites Kent to go on a run with him, he agrees. It’s early, earlier than Kent is used to getting up, but the sound in the apartment travels easily and Jack and Eric are fucking early birds. 

“I didn't use to be,” Eric says, secretive, while Kent is waiting for Jack to tie his sneakers. “He would have to drag me out of bed for morning practice when we were in school.”

“Did the same thing to me in juniors,” Kent says, flashing a grin that makes Bitty toss his head back and laugh. 

Jack’s route takes them winding through his neighborhood in Providence. The city is as New England as Kent could have ever imagined, and larger than he had anticipated. Jack’s apartment building is just a short ten minute drive away from downtown. It’s nothing fancy, nothing like the high-rise over the strip that Kent lives in. But it’s nice. It overlooks the quiet residential streets, lined with trees, and a sky bluer than Kent’s ever seen in his life.

For a while, they jog in silence. Kent’s not used to trying to keep up with Jack fucking Zimmermann, so he imagines that Jack is going easy on him a bit. It feels good to run outside in a place that isn't actively trying to kill him with the heat index. And Providence is pretty. The pounding of his feet and Jack’s fall in tandem every once in awhile, and it's the best thing in Kent’s life for those two seconds. 

“So,” Jack says, and he doesn't even sound out of breath. 

Kent, who's definitely not fit to run and talk, shakes his head. He reaches one hand out and lays his palm against the bulk of Jack’s bicep. Together, they slow until they're stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Talk or jog,” Kent says while Jack laughs. “Not both.”

“Fine,” Jack says, and claps him on the back with one of his fucking trashcan lid hands. They walk instead, side by side. Kent casually puts enough space between them that they don't touch. Finally, Jack speaks again: “So.”

“Yeah, you said,” Kent says softly, rubbing one hand over his hair. “So?”

When Kent looks at him, Jack has a little pinch in his brow. It takes him a while before he speaks. “You deserved to go first.”

It takes Kent a long time to throw himself ten years into the fucking past, but when he does the realization of what Jack is saying dawns on him. Kent misses a step and half stumbles as he tries to gather his own words. Finally, he says, “ _ What _ ?”

Jack is looking straight ahead. “I mean it,” he says. “And- it took a while to be able to say it, and mean it. I spent a long time resenting you for standing where I thought I belonged but- Kenny,” and now Jack is finally looking at him with those deep sad eyes, pale blue turned muted viridian in the off-color light of the early morning. “You were  _ good _ . The draft pick belonged to you.”

Kent’s feet stop moving, and Jack takes an extra step before stopping with him. They stand on the sidewalk together and something in Kent’s chest feels as if it’s constricting its way around his ribcage, against his lungs. For a solid minute, Kent is eighteen again. He wants to say,  _ desperately _ , all the things eighteen year old Kent might have said:  _ No, it was always you, Zimms- they didn’t know what they were missing not picking you _ . But Jack is looking at him with such earnest truth that Kent swallows down the protests.

It had always been a fluke to Kent. Some last minute stat that pushed him ahead- a technical error. Standing here, almost ten years later, Kent is starting to wonder if maybe Jack is right. Kent had spent so long just accepting that it was Zimms who was supposed to go first, and Kent who was supposed to follow. The fact that Kent was one of the best hockey players living on the ice right now, and Jack was just getting his turn as captain of an expansion team wasn’t  _ supposed _ to happen.

In his head, Kent can hear Gabriella’s voice: ‘ _ There is no ‘supposed to’ in life, Kent. There is only is or isn’t. _ ’

Finally, Kent manages some words: “Thanks, Zimms.”

“I mean it,” Jack says quickly, and Kent lifts his hands.

“I know,” he says. “That’s why-  _ thanks _ . Really.”

Jack grins then, warm and bright, and Kent is struck stupid by it. He smiles back and for a moment it’s just them- young still, together, smiling like idiots in the middle of the sidewalk. Kent reaches out first, clapping Jack on one broad shoulder. Jack’s hand jostles him when it comes down on his back, between his shoulder blades.  They grip each other for one long moment, and Jack is burning under Kent’s palm.

“Come on,” Jack says, nudging him forward. “I have a schedule to keep. Just because you slack off until training starts doesn’t mean the rest of us do.”

Jack dodges the punch to his shoulder that Kent throws and Kent falls behind, because he laughs and laughs and laughs.

 

+

 

Truthfully, Kent hadn’t expected much when he accepted the invitation to come visit Jack in Providence. Maybe they’d go out around the city a bit, drink some beers, shuffle through some emotional baggage in the comfort of Jack’s living room.

Eric, on the other hand, has his own plans. He has a whole day mapped out for hitting some of Providence’s tourist spots. He even packs snacks, which Kent finds so endearing he has to excuse himself to fake a piss before they leave the house.

The late summer air in Providence is cooler than Kent’s used to after living almost ten years in Hell’s own ass crack. Kent borrows one of Jack’s hoodies, but the only one Jack will let him wear has a Falconer’s logo on it for ultimate all-day chirping opportunities. Bitty doesn’t help matters by snapping a picture of Kent and posting it on Twitter. Then, he takes one of Jack and Kent together, awkwardly standing on the front steps of Jack’s apartment building.

“Are you gonna do this all day?” Kent asks, wrinkling his nose when all Jack does is laugh, good natured. 

“It reminds people you’re human,” Eric says. Kent’s phone buzzes with the notification that Eric @’d him on Twitter. The caption of the photos reads:  _ taking @officialkentparson & @jzimmermann to absorb some culture #MuseumDay _

“Why on earth would I want to do that?” Kent chirps, and it’s a joke but Eric’s eyes flash toward him and they seem, for a moment, sad.

“Don’t worry,” Jack says, clapping Kent on the back. “He’s really good at this social media thing.”

They take Jack’s car to the Roger Williams park, where the Museum of Natural History is. Kent gets distracted by the fact that there’s also a  _ zoo _ , and suddenly the day’s plans change completely. Kent gets Jack on his side, and then it’s them against Eric, who scowls and scoffs and pretends like he definitely does not want to go hang out with a bunch of animals.

The zoo is way better for Eric’s twitter anyway. Jack takes it so seriously that Kent can’t help but laugh- he’s got a map and everything. Kent just wants to see the big cats, which Bitty chirps him for mercilessly.

They wind through the zoo, all three of them. It’s weird, but it’s also natural and easy- like they’ve all been friends for years instead of weeks. Jack looks relaxed and easy, enjoying a day off in the unseasonably cool summer weather. Bitty takes a lot of pictures; some of them he posts to Twitter, but a lot of them are just for him. Or them. All three of them. Kent poses for more dumb, goofy pictures then he can remember ever doing before. 

Jack, it turns out, is really good at posing for dumb, goofy pictures. 

When they reach the big cats Kent takes a bunch of pictures and sends them all to Bea. She sends back a bunch of cat and crying emojis, and then,  _ I miss you!!!! _

Kent reminds himself to pick her something up from the gift shop on their way out. As they make their way along the pathways through the zoo, Kent never once feels like an outsider to Jack and Bitty- he does not feel as if they are one entity and he is a separate being, an afterthought. If Kent lags too far behind them Eric is there, winding one arm through his. Eric and Jack, separate, have their own individual orbits. Together, it’s impossible not to get drawn into their endless gravity.

Hanging back to take pictures of one of the leopards lounging on a sun rock, Kent catches sight of the two of them- Jack is leaning down just a bit, and Eric is up on his toes. They’ve been careful, a bit hesitant around him in a way that Kent thinks that  _ they _ think he doesn’t notice. But now, when they think that they’re  _ sure _ he isn’t watching, Kent sees them stealing a moment, soft and tender. Jack’s hand slides down Eric’s arm until their fingers meet. Jack’s hand is huge in comparison and engulfs Bitty’s palm with his own, fingers lacing together like a fucking lattice pie crust.

Kent’s chest burns in a strange way, like he’s got heartburn. He rubs one hand against the top of his thigh, a tendril of frustration shooting down his spine.

Holding hands has never been Kent’s thing. He’s never been that guy. 

Still. It cuts.

 

+

 

**bea bae** _(5:40 pm)  
_ i’m in ur apartment

**kent** _(6:02 pm)  
_ sweet what for

**bea bae** _(6:04 pm)  
_ roommates are being terrible again

**kent** _ (6:07 pm)  
_ wtf sorry that sucks. u can stay at mine until i come back

**bea bae** _(6:10 pm)  
_ i was gonna anyway. you get in monday right?

**kent** __(6:11 pm)  
yea yea  
u gonna pick me up from the airport

**bea bae** __(6:13 pm)  
duh. and then we’re gonna get fantastically drunk  
because im pretty sure my roommates are going to still be horrible by then

**kent** _(6:14 pm)  
_ dude just live at my place

**bea bae** _(6:17 pm)  
_ you are so crazy

**kent** __(6:20 pm)  
pls  
:-(

**bea bae** _(6:36 pm)  
_ you are so dumb. love you

**kent** _ (6:40 pm _ )    
love you back

 

+

 

“Hey, how do you get someone to move in with you?” Kent asks Bitty, pouring them each a glass of wine. Jack has a team thing, so he’s out. It’s only eight in the evening, but Kent think it’s a perfect time to get drunk.

“What?” Bitty asks, lifting his head. He’s baking something, or getting ready to bake something. It’s a pie, Kent thinks, because Bitty is doing something with strips of dough, laying them out over the top like a woven basket. It’s really fascinating to watch, so Kent props his hip against the counter and does so.

“I’m trying to get Bea to move in with me,” Kent says, frowning against the lip of his glass. “Okay, to be fair, I keep hinting she should just come live with me, but she’s all-” Kent makes a vague gesture with his hand. Bitty wrinkles his nose, indicating he has no idea what that’s supposed to mean.

“Don’t you live in a penthouse looking over the strip?” Bitty asks, snorting. “That’s hockey money, sweetheart. Bea works at a cat shelter.”

“ _ So _ ? I’ll pay rent, I don’t care.” Kent frowns when Bitty shoots him a look.  “ _ What? _ ”

“Oh come on, Parse,” Bitty says, saying Kent’s nickname in a way that sounds fond and exasperated all at once. It’s the way he talks to Jack, which Kent likes. “I know you’re not that thick.”

Kent frowns, deciding not to answer in favor of taking a swallow of his wine. When he sets the glass down on the counter, he says, “She didn’t have any problem with me taking her to New York. What’s the difference?”

“ _ Kent _ ,” Bitty sighs.

“Alright,  _ alright _ !” Throwing his hands in the air, Kent pushes away from the counter and begins pacing around the kitchen island. “What about you? You’re sitting on some pretty sweet hockey money too.”

Wiping his hands on the front of his apron, Bitty spins to look at him. He crosses his arms, pinning Kent with a look that makes him feel like the size of an ant. He picks at his nails instead. 

“Jack and I are  _ together _ , it’s not like he pays for everything. I pay half the rent here, y’know.” Bitty reaches for the wine glass Kent had poured for him, as if he couldn’t bother continuing on with this line of conversation without some alcohol. Kent sort of doesn’t blame him. He knows he’s being kind of insufferable right now. But when Bitty sets his wine back down he’s staring at Kent like he’s sad for him, which Kent  _ hates _ .

“You know,” Bitty says, laughing a little. “If you’re lonely you could just get a cat.”

Kent scoffs, but his lips twitch at the corners. “I’m not lonely,” he protests. “I just really dig Bea. My uh- my therapist, she says...” Kent swallows and looks down at the kitchen island. He considers trying to phrase this in a way that doesn’t sound crazy. He doesn’t even know if he wants to be talking about this with Bitty, but when he glances up again, Bitty’s got those big earnest brown eyes fixed on Kent’s face. No wonder Jack is head over heels for him.

“Yeah?” Bitty prompts, voice soft. The dip and rise of his accent makes Kent’s skin feel weird. 

“Well, uh-” Kent frowns deeper. “I've got this- uh, this thing, it's not a big deal or anything but- it kind of screws up how well I do with, um, relationships with people and stuff.” Kent fidgets with some spilled flour on the island, pushing it into a pile with his fingers and then pressing it down on the counter top. “And uh- perception of situations and shit like that. Anyway.”

“Does Jack know?” Bitty asks, not unkind. 

Kent shrugs, then laughs. “I mean not that I've got a nice fancy diagnosis or anything like that, but y’know... I think he probably figured it out from all the times I was bat shit crazy.”

Coming around the other side, Bitty nudges his shoulder against Kent’s, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter next to him. Kent refuses to turn and look at him, at first. He feels like his cheeks are burning red but he can’t really tell. He twirls his half-drunk wine glass between his fingers, teeth catching onto his tongue and lips pursed tight.

“Kent,” Eric says softly. He leans into Kent’s shoulder again. “Honey, look at me.”

Flustered, Kent does. “What?”

“You and I both know you’re not crazy,” Eric says, and his voice is infinitely gentle. Kent wants to ask him  _ How could you possibly know? _

“I  _ was _ crazy,” Kent amends. “I’m sure Jack’s told you stories.”

One of Bitty’s small hands finds Kent’s, and suddenly Bitty’s palm is pressed to his, warm and surprising. Kent looks down, watching the way Bitty folds their hands together. It’s not hand-holding the way Eric and Jack hold hands, with interlaced fingers and intimacy, but it is hand-holding. Kent squeezes and Eric squeezes back.

“Would you like to get irresponsibly drunk?” Bitty asks, voice low and conspiratorial.

Relieved, Kent nods.  “ _ Chyeah _ .”

 

+

 

When drunk, the floor is good. When wine-drunk, the floor is amazing.

“So there I was,” Bitty says, words slurring in the most delightful way. “Seventh grade, right? And I am  _ inside _ the supply closet.  _ Inside! _ The whole dang school had gone home by then and it was just me and- and you know, the brooms. The buckets.”

“Mops,” Kent supplies.

“ _ Mops _ ,” Bitty says, scoffing. “I was locked in there the whole dang night, I shit you not.”

Eric does things like say  _ dang _ and  _ shit _ in the same sentence. Kent is drunk and lying with him in the middle of Jack’s living room floor, and he’s certain that he’s not supposed to find this quirk endearing. He does anyway. They’re laying side by side, shoulders touching, fourth-or-fifth glasses of wine forgotten somewhere on the coffee table. Eric’s skin is warm through the fabric of his shirt and Kent is drunkenly, vibrantly aware of where their bodies touch. It’s a strange, almost unfamiliar feeling. Kent thinks of all the people who have touched him in any capacity and can’t remember a time when it was like  _ this _ . 

“That’s rough,” Kent says, watching the way Bitty’s hands gesticulate in the air, long fingers twisting together.

“Yeah,” Eric agrees, letting his hands flop, loosely folded, onto his own chest. “That’s what you get for bein’ five-four an’ visibly gay in  _ Georgia _ .”

“I thought you weren’t out to your parents until you came out with Zimms?” Kent turns his head so he’s facing Bitty, who is still staring straight up at the whirring blades of the ceiling fan.

“I wasn’t.  _ So? _ You’re not technically out either.” 

Kent laughs and lifts one hand, pushing it awkwardly against Bitty’s shoulder. “Are you saying I’m  _ visibly gay? _ ”

“ _ Honey _ ,” Eric says. They both dissolve into stupid laughter, and Kent’s cheeks start to hurt.

“Fair,” Kent says, exhaling the last of his laughter. And then, “That sucks. I never got- you know, bullied or anything but I think that’s ‘cause I hung out with Zimms, and he’s like-”

“Huge,” Bitty says, nodding sagely.

“Yeah. He was big even in Juniors. But he’s like-”

“-A goliath.”

“-Big.” Kent sucks in a breath as Bitty turns his head- and they’re looking at each other now, face to face. Bitty’s cheeks are flushed pink and his eyes are brown- deep, deep brown. Not the kind of brown that shows flecks of green or gold in certain light. Bitty’s eyes are brown like coal, fucking- endless and swallowing. Bitty has the kind of brown eyes that people would think are ugly, or bad, or something. Kent likes them. He likes the way they catch the light and the way he can barely tell the difference between iris and pupil.

“You have got… some really brown eyes,” Kent says, stupidly.

“What color are yours?” Bitty asks, practically stumbling over his words to get the question out. “I am looking  _ right at them _ and I still can’t tell.”

“Oh, uh.” Laughing, Kent wrinkles his brow and feels a moment of self-consciousness. “I think they’re hazel. That’s what it says on my driver’s license, anyway.”

“You  _ think _ ,” Bitty scoffs. “Unbelievable.”

Kent wants to ask himself what the hell he’s doing here.   _ Here _ , as in on the floor, and  _ here _ as in Jack’s Providence apartment. Their laughter dies away, leaving the air between them silent but heavy. Eric is looking at him and Kent is looking back. It feels strange and a little forbidden, like Kent ought to be guilty for taking any kind of pleasure or happiness in laying on Jack’s floor with Jack’s boyfriend in Jack’s house.

“Hey,” Bitty says, the sound of his voice barely audible above even the whirring of the ceiling fan. 

“Yeah?” Kent tries to focus on Bitty’s face, even though his eyes are getting bleary from all the wine.

“Well,” Bitty says, rolling the end of the word, elongating the sound. “ _ Well _ .”

“Well?” Kent prompts.

“Shh.” Bitty lifts one finger to his lips and Kent purses his lips to stop from snickering. “I’ve got something to say,” Bitty goes on, and his tone, while drunk, seems to be attempting seriousness. Kent furrows his brows and nods.

“The thing is,” Bitty says, each word slow and careful- probably so that Kent, in his drunken state, doesn’t miss any of them. And probably also so that Bitty doesn’t slur or stumble over his words. “Jack and I, we talked. A lot- we talked a lot about you, y’know? Coming here.”

“Okay,” Kent says, feeling a little lost.

“Right,” Bitty goes on. “We did. Jack’s told me- you know, enough? I think. About you two, the both of you, you and Jack.”

Eric seems like he’s really trying to say something important, or at the very least trying to make a concept come to fruition. He babbles on for another minute before the sound of the front door unlocking makes the both of them jump out of their skin. Kent feels a sudden, sharp pain in his stomach, a twisting guilt that turns all the wine in his belly to bile. He rolls onto his stomach and pushes himself up onto his elbows, while Bitty flies to his feet.

“Hey, Bittle- oh.” Jack’s voice rumbles from the front hall of the apartment. Kent pushes himself to his feet, trying to decide whether he wants to collapse on the couch or go hide his drunken shame in the bathroom. He doesn’t really get a chance for either, though. Jack comes around the corner with Eric’s arms half-wrapped around his torso, struggling to maneuver with a small, wine-blasted boyfriend in the way.

“Have fun?” Jack asks, grinning over the top of Bitty’s head.

Kent puffs out a laugh and wonders if it sounds as flat as it feels. “Uh, too much, I think,” Kent says, squinting. He watches the way Jack’s broad hand sweeps down Bitty’s back, stroking from the center of his shoulder blades down to the dip of his waist in one smooth, soothing motion. Kent’s own skin tingles in sympathy.

“I should get him to bed,” Jack says, nodding down at Bitty.

“I am at least half a glass behind Kent,” Eric mumbles into Jack’s chest, muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

“And half a glass smaller,” Jack chirps. 

Kent only allows himself to collapse on the couch once he hears the bedroom door click shut, Jack and Bitty disappearing behind. 

Bad ideas, as a whole, tend to be Kent’s specialty. Impulsive and short-sighted, Kent has done everything from almost letting Jack Zimmermann kill himself on a bathroom floor to throwing himself head first into a defenseman at least a foot taller than him. Kent excels at bad ideas. Usually, he’s aware of himself enough to know that it’s a bad idea in the first place. It makes dealing with the aftermath easier. 

Now, sitting on Jack’s couch, wine-drunk and feeling something strange and vicious in his gut-- 

Kent could never have guessed that this would be one spectacularly bad idea.

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr @whalelesbian


End file.
